Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When you think of joy, you think of the color purple.

For a long time, you didn’t like the color purple. You found it garish. Didn’t love the associations with royalty, that a color could belong to a class of people defined by something as fickle as wealth or birth. 

But like many things in your adulthood, the color purple eventually grew on you. You had to admit: the soft gentle violet of a sunset—the color that dances between other colors, here a moment, gone the next—it was thrilling to chase it through the sky as the light sank low on the horizon. And you also had to admit that baby-soft lilac color, doting on the first flowers that pressed up through the tough winter grounds in early springtime, reminded you that winter does end. Warmer days do come. And finally, when you realized purple felt like a memory visiting you again, sweet and warm, you simply couldn’t withhold your affection for the color any longer. 

Purple reminded you of the flickering feeling of life beneath Hoseok’s skin as his hand clamped down on yours above your head as you touched each other in the early hours of the morning all those days ago, a bead of sweat perched on the bridge of his nose as he thrust into you, the quiet sounds of sleep rising from the friends sprawled around you in the living room— 

You shake yourself back to reality. 

For someone who’s getting fucked pretty much everyday, you sure do daydream a lot about getting fucked. 

But joy—purple—lilac, whatever: that color has been flirting at the edges of your reality these past few days. After your conversation with your friends about the difficulty of the early days of quarantine, a weight feels lifted off your shoulders. It had felt like you were hiding some kind of secret—or even yourself—away from the people who loved you most. You hadn’t realized how guilty you felt about that until the truth had been revealed. And since telling them about your struggles with mental health, not a single member of the household had treated you any differently, like you were broken or wounded. Instead, you noticed them coming to sit with you and talk with you about what happened, how they can help. They asked you questions, they wanted to know what it was like. But that you don’t mind. 

On top of that, things with Hobi have been so easy. 

Things have been easy with everyone. 

Since your time spent with Jimin the night after the bonfire, you had felt a kind of kinship with him. Shared glances across the dinner table, even when Hoseok’s hand is wrapped around yours beneath the table. Jimin seemed to hover closer, gifting you with little touches, his hand on your lower back while you wash the dishes, plucking a hair off your lip before dinner with a small smile. Small moments of laughter, an inside joke about underwear, shared with a whisper in your ear when no one else can hear. 

But despite that proximity, you also can’t help but notice that despite your new casual ease with him, since the bonfire, he has seemingly pulled back from the others. At the dinner table, he’s quieter. When you all are cleaning or taking care of household chores, he’s much less directive than he usually is. He had even forgotten about his promise to make you come the day after your last romp. But when you remind him , a cheeky smile on your face when he comes in after a hike (and fail to mention that Hoseok had made you come several times in the wee hours of the morning), he grins and pulls you deeper into the house, away from the prying eyes of your six shared housemates. 

Jimin is kissing down your neck in the hallway after dinner one night—you make a mental note about how he loves to kiss you where anyone can stumble upon your intertwined forms—his hands slipping under your shirt, down your leggings. You gasp when his fingers tease at your folds. You can tell he’s going to take his sweet time with you. 

“Jesus, can we just fuck for once?” you gasp into his mouth as his index finger slides inside you. You don’t even bother to lower your voice. “I’m wet enough, I need you. No more games.” You give him your best doe-eyed plea.

He hesitates, deciding if he wants to drag things out for his own fun or give you what you want. “Is that what you want? No games, no waiting, just me?” 

“It is,” you say, trying to keep the sexual frustration from making you sound too whine-y. 

“Then that’s what you’ll have.”  

He doesn’t even bother to take you to his bedroom. There, in the hallway, where anyone might find you, it’s fast and hasty work, pulling your top off, shimmying your pants to the floor.  Jimin too, makes quick work of his button-down, while your gaze traces over his torso, the tattoo right above his ribs, and the little happy trail that leads exactly where you want to go. 

“See something you like?” Jimin asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“Always,” you say, capturing his lips for a kiss that, after the fact, feels wonderfully—wonderfully?—domestic. Slow and gentle and warm. Time slows. The air stills. Then, the pace shifts again and your mutual clothes are tossed hither and thither across the hardwood floors of the hallway and your greedy hands reach for one another once more. 

Undressed now, Jimin flips you so you face the wall, your hands pressed against the cool plaster, your back to him. He steps between your legs, using his foot to push them a little further apart so he can fit between them. His hand comes down to your lower back, pressing ever so slightly so that you arch into him, pressing your ass back just enough to meet the hard flesh of his cock. 

You gasp as it meets the slickness of your center, the burning warmth of him sending shivers down your spine. 

Does this ever get old? 

He doesn’t tease you much this time, just glides his cock through your folds to collect the moisture there, uses one hand to spread it across his dick, and begins to press in. 

“This is what you want, isn’t it?” he asks. “Me inside of you? Filling you?”

“Yes, Jimin, god yes.” 

He slides home, his cock spearing through you, the head of it tugging at your walls, which tighten around him. He grunts, and you drink up the sound. Jimin, to your previous surprise, wasn’t the most vocal in bed, but today something seems like it’s loosened inside of him, and sounds of pleasure begin to fall from his lips as he fucks you. 

He’s thick inside of you, and your fingernails dig into the wall as you search for something to hang onto as he rams into you at a quick and desperate pace.  

“I knew you’d like it,” he says. “Fucking where anyone can see you, anyone can walk in and find you writhing on my cock, calling out my name.” 

“Yes, yes,” you pant. 

It’s true. 

There’s something about the risk of it all. The thrill of not knowing. The high of being fucked by one man only to have another walk by and want you just as much. 

“Op!” 

The note sounds from the end of the hallway, and you tilt your head just enough to see Jin standing at the entrance, a pan of steaming muffins gripped between two large oven mitts. He seems to be on his way to do a round through the house, offering baked goods like a trolly cart lady.

What timing.

His gaze roves over your joined bodies, drifting downward to where Jimin’s cock is plunging into you. He lets his stare linger. You warm beneath the blatant attention, his obvious interest in what’s happening before him. You can see him hardening through his jeans. 

Then, he clears his throat, stands a little straighter. 

“I’m going to assume you two don’t want muffins.” His voice is low, smooth, and sweet like pastries. There’s a kind of even-tempered curiosity, backed by his usual confidence. 

Jimin’s pace doesn’t cease, doesn’t falter, despite the intrusion. It’s like his movements are saying, you’re all his, and no one else’s. And not even the temptation of a fresh-out-of-the-oven blueberry muffin or a very broad shouldered friend of yours can take that away from him. 

“Maybe later,” Jimin grunts. 

“Later, yeah,” you gasp as Jimin grinds into you from behind.

Your cheeks are warming from the mix of Jimin’s ministrations and Jin’s near-casual but definitive interest in your coupling. Jin watches like he’s taking you in, and behind his calculated gaze, you can see his mind spinning, figuring. Perhaps he’s imagining himself joining your pairing, but more likely than not, you think he’s thinking up a new way to tease you later—with a laugh at the end of the sentence or with his fingers inside you.

You’re trying to hold back a whine and simultaneously hold onto any last bit of dignity you might have remaining. Though, when you think of it, every day that goes by you believe you might have less and less. But who is chasing dignity these days anyways? When the world has stopped spinning entirely?

Jin catches the small sound of pleasure that finally eeks out of you and he smirks, his eyes flicking from where yours and Jimin’s body’s join up to your eyes. He says nothing. He doesn’t have to. But you understand. He doesn’t want you to look away. There’s something even more indulgent in this gaze, his eyes meeting yours. Though he’s no longer looking at your sex, you somehow feel even more naked: your pleasure, bared to him, and his pleasure, taken in yours. 

Though the small gesture has dropped your mouth open as new sounds of pleasure emerge, though you’re now gasping in surprise as Jimin pushes deeper and Jin holds your gaze—you feel more present than ever. Alive—like your lungs are full, like you’re breathing fresh air. 

As Jin reached down to adjust his belt—it’s just a flicker of movement as he adjusts his now hard cock—you understand the promise in Jin’s eyes. You. Me. Soon.  

“I’d ask to join you all,” Jin says, again, even-toned. You clench around Jimin, an action that doesn’t go unnoticed, as he chuckles from behind you. “But I have more pressing matters to attend to: Taehyung is hangry.” 

Jimin nods behind you, his hips still hammering into you. 

“‘Course.” 

“Well. It was lovely chatting. I’ll leave you to it. Maybe I’ll catch up with you again later.” He sends you a directed wink. 

Your heart skips a beat at the thought. Since the orgy, you still hadn’t spent any one on one time with Jin. Or Taehyung, for that matter. You wonder if there’s meaning in the distance between you three—or if you’ve merely been distracted. After all, how are you supposed to reasonably split your time between seven very horny, very lovely men? 

“Uh—uh—y—eah.” Your voice is jolted from you in time with Jimin’s thrusts. “Please.”

As he turns, he refuses to take his eyes from yours, a pleased smile lighting on his lips. For a moment the shared gaze reminds you of something far off, yet familiar: something from the world that has come to pass you by. Perhaps it reminds you of the feeling of meeting a stranger on the street or in a crowded bar. The spark of recognition, of seeing someone new light up with something old: desire. He wants you. And now, more than ever, you want him. He knows this, and it’s what makes him smile.  Jin disappears again, and you’re left with nothing but Jimin’s hard cock pounding into you. He leans closer, pressing his pouty lips against your ear to whisper, just to you: 

“You were so good, baby, you didn’t even ask me to stop when he came by,” Jimin grunts. “You just took it like a good little kitten. Did that feel good? Having him watch me fuck you?” 

You don’t say anything, just whine as he continues to fuck you, harder now, his balls slapping against your clit. With each hit you feel a spike of pleasure flood through you. It’s enough to make you, somehow, even more needy than you already are, but not enough to satisfy you fully. 

“I watched the way his eyes went down to where I’m fucking you. I know he was imagining himself inside you. How does that feel? Knowing he wants what I have?”

You moan.

“Answer me,” he says, one of his hands winding around your throat. He pulls you up so your back is pressed to his front, and he’s squatted slightly between your legs, thrusting up into you. It’s an animalistic, needy positioning, and you feel lightheaded with it all. 

There’s a kind of possessiveness in Jimin’s language that feels brand new. He’s hitting that soft spot inside you with each thrust and it feels so good it almost hurts. As the ache and pleasure melt together, you can’t help the burning building in your belly, flashing with white light with each of his thrusts. He slips his hand around your front, fingers toying with your clit. 

“ Fuck —It feels so good, Jimin.” 

“You’re in a house full of men who want you, who would fuck you like I’m fucking you in the middle of the hallway, in the kitchen, in the pool—wherever they could get you if they got the chance. How does that make you feel?” 

It makes you feel a thousand things. But all you manage to speak is: 

“Wanted.” 

“Good. Because you are.” 

There’s something about those words that hit an entirely different soft spot—one in your chest. Your heart aches, but your attention is quickly pulled away. You clench around him and he moans in your ear. His pace quickens, grows harder. There’s a desperation to him you haven’t seen before. Like he needs this. Like he needs you. 

The thought is enough to push you over the edge and, hands falling forward to brace your fall against the wall, you suck in quick gasps as your orgasm rockets through you. Knees wobbling, you clench tightly around Jimin, a movement which prompts a growl and a moan from him as his pace stutters. 

“You want my come? I know you do, I know you do—“ 

He presses himself against you, filling you from the inside. He holds himself there, his grip tightening around you. You’re coming down from the height of your orgasm, your body warm and ringing in sensation as he fills you up, hips pumping ever so slightly. 

He murmurs against your neck, slumping forward. 

You’re not sure how long you stay like that, his front pressing to your back, sweat mingling, breaths synching—the only sound in the long hallway. You hum as your skin cools from hot to warm against his, as his hands trace over your body. Finally, he pulls out. You can feel his come shift inside of you. 

“I like when you’re full of me,” he pants, slouching against the wall next to you. “Keep me inside.” He pats your pussy, where his come is beginning to slip out and down your thigh. 

“That’s what all of you say,” you giggle, but in reality: you like it too. It makes you feel marked. Wanted. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Jimin says, pulling his pants on, and, throwing his shirt at you to cover up (as if now, of all times, is the proper time to dress yourself). He leads you through the house back to his room after scooping up your belongings. You hastily button the shirt—well, two of the buttons—and follow after him. Without looking behind at you, he reaches behind him, his palm opening, fingers spread wide: an invitation for you to hold his hand. You take it. 

You pass Yoongi in his studio. He glances up at you from his work, his hand half lifting to say hello before he realizes the state of you and Jimin: sweat-studded, warm, and marked all over by sex. His hand freezes. His eyes lock on Jimin. You’re not sure if you’re imagining it, but you think you see Jimin falter for half a second, before leading you on. No words are exchanged, just that long, long glance. 

When you arrive in Jimin’s room, all the blinds are shuttered and the bed is unmade. It’s a little unlike Jimin, you think. But while he struts to the ensuite bathroom, you tread toward the windows, tugging on the blinds so that the windows pop open to reveal the mountains washed in nightfall. As you watch the moonlight shift over the rolling terrain, something in your chest shifts, opens. This view never ceases to make you feel at peace, you think, as your breathing slows and your body relaxes. There’s not a place on this earth that you’ve visited that makes you feel the way looking at the mountains does.  

Jimin announces his return with a slight cough and holds out a washcloth to you.

“Want me to do it?” he asks.  

“S’ okay,” you reply and take the washcloth from him, reaching between your legs and wiping yourself down. “I thought you wanted me to ‘keep you inside.’”  

“Sometimes I say things just because they’re hot,” Jimin says, as he makes his way to the bed and flops down. “And sometimes I say things because it’s important to be hygienic.”

You watch him for a moment. Your gaze catching on his movement, off somehow: his weary eyes, his tired limbs. 

Since you initially arrived at the house, you had been the receiver of the most delightful aftercare you’d ever been privy to, even with your more experienced sexual partners of previous years. There was something about a friend who knew you, really knew you, that added a personal and knowing touch to satisfy the physical and emotional aches that followed sex. 

But as you look at Jimin, you realize: when had he ever received that kind of aftercare? You were so wrapped up in your own experience, that you had forgotten to check in with him. He opens his arms, inviting you into bed with him, inviting you into his embrace.

“Hold on,” You say, holding up a hand. “I have to take care of something. Just give me ten minutes and I’ll be back—In the meantime, close your eyes a little?” 

Jimin nods. A little smile flickers at the corner of his lips. But he lets his head fall back onto the pillow and his eyes flutter shut. You can’t help but stare for a moment too long before you’re turning on your heel and skidding through the hallways, past Yoongi’s studio—empty now—past the spot where just minutes ago, you’d been fucked against the wall. You don’t pause. 

You’re on a mission. 

You stop by the kitchen first, surprising a closely pressed Namjoon and Yoongi, who break apart when they notice you entering. 

“Oh, sorry—” Namjoon hastily apologizes. “I mean, I’m not sorry—I mean, welcome.” 

“Welcome?” Yoongi raises a questioning eye. 

“Yes. Welcome to the kitchen.” Namjoon answers, opening his arms wide in an awkward reception.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” you say, grinning. “Proceed.” 

“We weren’t doing anything,” Namjoon says, perhaps a little too quickly. You look between the two. You notice how Yoongi’s hand is immediately next to Namjoon’s, his fingers flickering, as if yearning for touch. And Namjoon’s foot is halfway between both of Yoongi’s. Perhaps they weren’t doing anything, but it’s clear that that statement wouldn’t be true for long.

 But you just smile and gather your intended materials and set off, knowing they’re both watching you and your half-covered ass as you leave the kitchen.

Next, you head to the master bedroom, the room where Hobi (and sometimes you) have been sleeping. You traipse into the bathroom, rifle through the cabinets. 

“What are you doing?” a voice calls from behind you. 

“Hobi.” You smile, turn, and step towards him, pressing a kiss to his surprised features. 

“Are you staying here tonight?” There’s a bright light of hope dancing in Hoseok’s eyes. 

“Ah, I dunno,” you say truthfully. “Probably not. I’m just getting some things for Jimin.” 

“Oh. I see.” You can’t help but notice the little note of disappointment in his voice. “Tomorrow? Can I have you tomorrow?” 

You grimace at his choice of words. 

“Sorry—can I steal you away tomorrow?” 

You nod, pecking his cheek and gathering your materials into your arms. 

“Tomorrow.” 

You leave Hoseok in the bathroom with your second set of materials and hurry back to Jimin’s room. 

“Okay, okay! I’m back!” You call from outside the door. “But close your eyes! Don’t look!” 

You can hear the peals of Jimin’s light, sleepy laughter echoing out from the bedroom. 

“What on earth are you doing?” 

“It’s a surprise! Are your eyes closed?” 

“Yes!” 

With your foot, you push open the door and creep inside, slipping quickly into the bathroom where you deposit all of your goodies. You quickly set it up, but Jimin is impatient, calling every other minute from the bedroom, checking if you’re ready yet. You shoo him off enough times, until finally you’re ready. You give your project one final look-over, and with a satisfied nod, open the door. 

You slide into the bedroom and pull him from the bed, pressing your hands over his eyes as you shuffle him to the bathroom door. 

“Okay… now, open!” 

You release Jimin from your grasp and let him take in the scene of the bathroom. For a moment, he’s entirely silent. Then he says: 

“What is all this?” 

“It’s for you.”

Before him waits a steaming bubble bath and a little tray filled with snacks and a hot mug of tea. Soothing, spa-like music croons from a small speaker. You’ve laid a freshly laundered bathrobe near the tub too, but it’s just then that you notice he has his own, hanging on the door behind you.

“I mean I hope so,” he chuckles. “But really, what is it?” 

“Aftercare,” you say. “You’ve been so good about checking in and taking care of us, and I wondered—I didn’t know if anyone was doing that for you. I wanted to do that for you.” 

Jimin grins and turns back towards you. He wraps you up in a hug, before pulling back enough to kiss you. 

“Thank you.” 

There’s a softness in his eyes you’re not used to seeing. 

When you undress Jimin this time around, there’s nothing sexual in the act. And that kind of scares you. He doesn’t take his eyes off of you as you undo his pants and slip them off, and is silent as you help him into the bath, though he groans indulgently at the feeling of the steaming water meeting his skin. He sinks in, up to his shoulders in the deep tub filled with bubbles and bath perfumes. 

“This is perfect.” 

You settle behind him, on the outside of the tub. “Can I wash your hair?” 

“Really? You want to?” 

“Yeah.” 

“No one’s done that since I was a kid.” 

You smile. “Really? Then it’ll be my little gift to you.” 

“This is more than a little gift,” Jimin says, swishing his hand through the water to point to everything all around him that you’ve set up. And then more quietly, “It’s almost… romantic,” he muses. You stiffen at the words, and if he can sense your discomfort, he continues, “It’s just… nice. Kind. Good. Thank you.” He twists towards you, grabbing your dry hands in his wet ones. “Thank you. Really.”

You smile at him and twist his shoulders back so he’s facing forward once more. 

“Now. Let me take care of you.” 

You settle behind him and roll up your sleeves, grabbing the bottle of shampoo and squeezing some into your hand. You lather it up, enjoying the silky smooth glide of the liquid between your palms before massaging some into his hair. You’re careful, gentle, with your movements, fingertips circling on his scalp. His inky black hair parts like a dark sea between your fingers, and you soon get lost, mesmerized in the repetitive action. When he groans softly, the utterance pulls you back to the present, and you can’t help but think it’s one of the sexiest sounds he’s made. 

When you’re done lathering up his hair, you reach for a cup, dipping it in the water. 

“Tilt your head back,” you guide, and he does, exposing his neck and the round bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. You see the strain, so you reach with your hand behind his head, tangling fingers in hair, and hold him firm.  Carefully, you pour the water over his hair. A steam of suds run and sink into the field of pinkish bubbles. 

“Hmmmm,” he hums as you repeat the action, and you watch as his eyes flutter shut and his shoulders loosen, dropping. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen him this relaxed. It makes you smile, thinking that you’re the one doing all this. Maybe you do enjoy being in control more than you thought.

When you’re done with his hair, you stand and wipe your hands on a towel. 

“Well. I’ll leave you to it. Enjoy your bath—“

A hand wraps around your wrist. 

“Don’t go.” 

“What?” 

“Don’t go. I’d pull you in right about now if I wasn’t worried about you slipping and getting a concussion.”

You laugh. 

“Join me,” Jimin says. “There’s plenty of space for both of us. And I bet you need it as much as I do.” 

You eye the bathtub. He’s right in both regards. The bathtub is huge, still steaming, and your body is yearning for a nice long soak right about now. 

“But I want this to be about you,” you say. 

“It can be about me. And what I want right now is for you to join me.” 

“Ha, fine.” You nod, and begin to unbutton the shirt he’d given you. Carefully, you slip into the bath, settling at the other side of the tub, directly across from him. 

He presses his toes to yours. Smiles at you. 

“Thank you for this. Really.” His foot pushes against yours, almost playfully. 

You sit in silence for a long moment. His head lolls back against the wall of the tub, and you watch him. He’s so beautiful like this: resting, relaxing. When you reach out towards him to run a hand across his leg, inching higher, he grabs your hand and stops your movements. He intertwines your fingers together, and there’s a small bolt of panic when you realize this moment isn’t intended to be sexy. It’s just supposed to be the two of you. You ease your thoughts by reminding yourself that this is just your friend. Your friend, naked in a bubble bath with you, his hand caught in yours. So you shift your attention to him, instead.

There’s an ease around him that you haven’t seen in a couple of days. On one hand, you don’t want to spoil the moment, but at the same time, you can’t help but speak up. 

“You know, I can’t help but wonder,” you begin, swirling a hand through the bubbles. “When we were having that discussion the other night, around the fire. When I shared—That there was a time when I, um, didn’t want to be here anymore.” You’re not sure why the words are suddenly heavy, difficult to get out. But you continue. “And you were there, and you looked so incredibly sad, like what I was saying meant something more to you. More—like—” You brush your hand across your face. “Goddamnit, I don’t wanna assume—and I can’t get the words right. Like it meant what it meant to me.” None of your words are making sense. You try again. “That it meant something personal to you. But then you never said anything. During the conversation, you never said anything at all.” 

Jimin looks down. Blinks. He lets go of your hand. His mouth twitches like he’s going to say something, but then he presses his lips together. 

“I, um.” He trails off. 

“It’s okay,” you say hurriedly. “We really don’t have to talk about it. I’ve just been noticing you pulling away a little more since then. How quiet you’ve been. And the shades in your bedroom. They were drawn.”

“The shades?” Jimin’s brow presses in confusion. “What do the shades have to do with anything?” 

“When I walked into your room there was something off. The room was so dark. Maybe it’s silly. Maybe I’m just making assumptions though—” 

“What?”

You take a breath and steel yourself. Out with it. 

“It feels like you’re pulling away.” 

Then, you hold your breath as you wait for him to reply. There is a long moment where you fear everything will shatter. And then he laughs, but there’s an edge of tension, like a chord pulled taut, ringing through the usually twinkling sound.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up,” you say quickly.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. I should, I mean, I probably should talk about it. It’d probably be good for me. But I don’t want to just unload on you. I don’t just want to leave you with all… this .” He motions to himself with a circular motion. 

You reach forward, and grab his hand again. Give him a little squeeze.

“All this —“ You motion to him in the same manner. “Is exactly everything I want to deal with.”

“It’s too much,” he smiles sadly, splashing his hands in the water, not looking at you.

“You’re not too much, Jimin. Your feelings aren’t too much.”

He sighs. 

“Thank you. Sometimes it doesn’t feel that way—but, thank you.” You two share a long gaze before his shoulders slump and he leans forward, resting his head in his hands. The water stirs around him. “Where do I even begin?”

“I dunno. At the beginning?” 

He nods, and you watch as his gaze shifts and he seems to go somewhere far away. 

“I guess the beginning was alright. Of quarantine, I mean. I thought there was a sense of freedom to it all. Not having to go into the office. A disruption in the routine. All expectations and plans and requirements taken off the table. Which felt like freedom. It was like suddenly no one was looking at me any more, no one was expecting anything from me except to just live, day by day. But then there was this anxiety that set in.”

You nod and he looks to you for validation before continuing. “Like I felt like I needed those things to be a person. The expectations, the shoulds, the pressure to go where, when, with who. I think I needed them feel like a person, or to feel like I knew where I was going. All of a sudden, all of the places and people and ideas and expectations that had shown me where I needed—where I should go—were gone. I was wandering my apartment in circles, going crazy, missing everyone, feeling like I was missing out on everything, even when there was nothing going on. And I knew the whole time that what I was feeling wasn’t real—but I couldn’t shake it.” 

You nod sagely. 

“I understand that. That sounds really difficult.” 

He nods blankly, and you can tell that it’s about to pour out. 

“And it sounds so stupid, but I missed sex. I missed sex so much.” 

“That’s not stupid, Jimin.” 

“It felt like a part of me was taken away. Like a huge part of the way that I communicate— it just disappeared. And I was left with nothing. I thought you guys would laugh if while you all were baring your hearts to each other, I was just sat there like, ‘I missed fucking.’ That it would be offensive to compare it to what all of you were going through.” 

“Jimin, whatever you were going through, we want to hear. We wouldn’t have laughed.” 

“Maybe you should have though.” 

“C’mon. You can’t just sit here and say that being stripped of your entire social life, the way you connect to people, to the world, you can’t say that loss is worth laughing at.” 

Jimin is silent for a long moment. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.” 

“I mean, everything, everything disappeared. I feel like what you’re describing isn’t just about sexual gratification or getting your rocks off. It’s everything. We went from this world where, living in the city, every day is full of these little bumps with strangers, right? You go to the grocery store and flirt with the girl by the oranges. You go to the bar and you hear about someone’s breakup, and then you make out with them in the bathroom.” You get Jimin to crack a smile at that—remembering together.
“We lost so much. The sex. The flirting, sure. But there was something else, too. The connecting with strangers. The connecting with people we loved.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Sex is important, but what you’re describing is connection. Direction. Your whole world changed. How can you say that that’s not a huge loss?” 

Jimin finally looks at you. He blinks. He stays silent. Then: “It was so lonely. I was so lonely.” 

“Of course you were.” 

“I think I didn’t know who I was without sex.”

“Don’t you think it goes a little deeper than that?” 

“I didn’t know who I was without all the relationships in my life.” 

You nod. You understand. What you say next almost surprises you. “I don’t think we’re meant to know that kind of thing. I don’t think we’re meant to be so distant from everyone.” 

He nods, then says, “Then why do you make yourself so distant?” 

Oh.

Fuck . 

“We’re talking about you, Jimin,” you say quickly. 

“We’ve talked about me. We can talk about you too.” 

“I don’t want to—“ 

When Jimin says your name, it rings right through you. It quiets you. It sends you somewhere soft and silent. You sink down in the water, letting it come up, just above your nose. You look at him from that level, that quiet piercing gaze going right through you. He just waits. And waits. When you can’t hold your breath any more, you push up, letting the water glide off you. 

“I don’t know, Jimin,” you say, finally. “But whatever it is, I don’t know what to do with it.”